


enough

by loki (lokigurl)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-30
Updated: 2011-05-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 22:04:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokigurl/pseuds/loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>post-Wrecked (S6) tag</p>
            </blockquote>





	enough

_  
Oz._

 ____

Funny how her mind goes back to him now. Now, as she's curled up on the bed, pulling her body away from the faint light coming in from the opposite window. She's been pulling away from the light for a long time.

Shaking shivering shuddering.

How can it always be so hot and so cold?

Sweat drips off her, she closes her eyes and waits as it slides down her collarbone, between her breasts, over her stomach where it soaks into the material. She's already changed twice and this won't be the last outfit tonight, she knows this. Blanket, pajamas, t-shirt, no matter - they're all soaked.

Everything around her is so damp. Damp and dark. It all smells different, too. Not the familiar scent of mixed herbs and melted wax. Instead she tries to ignore the rotting odor of the room. Can't hide from it, can't find it. Tear everything apart, toss clothes and books and random items that once held some importance. Resigns herself to the fact that the source will never be found and pray that it rots away quickly - abandoning her precious space.

She knows that it's not going to go away quickly.

She knows she's rotting from the inside out.

She's fallen, fallen farther down than she'd thought herself capable of.

Even the light has stopped its approach across the room. Even the light knows.

 _Oz._

Buffy sits in her room, but it's not out of concern. Not for her, anyway. Buffy sits and waits and waits and waits for the moment that her weakness shows.

Looks to see if her mouth moves in imperceptible patterns, calling to spirits.  
 _(there is nothing for her to speak, her mouth is too dry)  
_ Looks to see if bottles and vials are shaking across the room.  
 _(there is nothing for her to move, her will is too frail)_

Buffy isn't watching over her, she's waiting. Reminding her that she fucked up, quite possibly beyond repair. Buffy has a long memory when it comes to mistakes and a short one when it comes to forgiveness.

 _  
Oz.  
_

He would sit silently, probably first in the chair and then to the bed. Maybe he'd move to her side and lean against the headboard. She would listen to his breathing, use it as a focus point as the throb grows louder and louder in her ears.

It was rare that she was the one to watch over him. Often, she'd wake in his bed to him humming softly, a hint of that smile - the one that fell between awed and stoic - on his lips as her silken strands fell through his fingers over and over. But on the mornings after the full moon, he would be so exhausted, so deep that he wouldn't stir until she was with him.

Those mornings, she'd creep into his dungeon, press her face against the bars and listen to his laboured breaths. Sometimes for hours until she could no longer stand to be so close yet so far.

If he was here, he would find that perfect place near her - far enough to keep from hurting her, close enough to love her.

 _  
Oz.  
_

She wants him, needs him here. Now. She knows he will not judge her, they're past that. She knows he will not forgive her blindly, but that he will forgive her. She knows that he'd understand.

He would understand because he's felt that power, that concentrated source of something - something bigger than himself or any one person. Something that he tapped into and let it take him over inch by inch, vessel by vessel.

She's stood by as his body ripped itself, as his cries of agony turned into growls of desire.

There was something about his eyes as he changed, melancholy and lustful. Now _she_ understands - knows what it feels like to straddle the line between good and bad, powerful and powerless, being mortal and being immortal. It's a conscious decision, at least in the beginning, one that she struggled with, wanting to walk the straight and narrow. But the closer she got, the closer he got to that source, the line wasn't so clear and every damn cell raged, propelling them closer to the delicious, swirling energy.

And it hurt, more than anyone outside could ever know.

She knows. She now knows what before she could only watch from the outside.

She knows when the pain is too much, but not enough.

  
 _  
Oz.  
_

It's not enough now. Nothing is enough - not her pain nor her guilt nor her need.

It is not enough. Not even the image of Dawn, bloodied and broken because of her.

It is not enough. Not Buffy sitting in the corner as a constant reminder. Nor the underside of the pillowcase she's refused to wash because it still sorta smells like Tara. Not even the look she knows will cross Xander's face when he finds out, if he can even stand to look at her.

She's so tired now. The ache wallows in her bones, whimpering to be set free. And she wants to set it free, she does. She wants to set the ache and the need and the wanting free. She wants to throw off the blankets and run and run and run from judging eyes. She wants to lick and drink and taste the glory of power again. She wants to soar and spin in the throes of intensity.

Anything but this.

But she doesn't.

None of this is enough. None of this can hurt her. Not the way she's supposed to hurt.

 _  
Oz.  
_

He can. He can still destroy her.

He has wounded her with distance, filled her with self-doubt and distrust, and most of all, devastated her with love. Left her love for fleeting lust, then threw his love at her and left. Left her to deal with the pieces and left her no real explanation. He left her all alone.

She's alone again. He's not in the room and he's not coming and he's probably never even going to know about this at all. And the memories, the scenarios and imagined breaths, they are not enough.

She pulls the blanket tighter because this is what she's _supposed_ to do. Pay her penance, earn back destroyed trust. She's supposed to _hurt_.

She does.

And she does it alone.


End file.
